


Inuit Girls

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, F/M, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-02
Updated: 1999-03-02
Packaged: 2018-11-11 03:50:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11140482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: A teenaged Fraser learns about life under the tutelage of Eric the hunter, in a summer spent with the Raven Clan.





	Inuit Girls

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Inuit Girls 

 

 

**M/M, M/F, M' hmm, Rated R  
**

_This is for Jane, whose Due South novel, "Heaven and Hell," contains a passage that reawakened a long-dormant Desire on my Part (ahem!) to write a story with this title._

* * *

It's the summer after graduation from high school and young Benton Fraser is living among the Tsimshian until college starts in the fall. With Grandpa Fraser in the hospital in Vancouver, Grandma spending all her time there with him, and Fraser Sr. away as usual, Ben has only hunting and fishing on his mind--until an older, wiser family friend decides it's time for Ben to find out about... 

#  Inuit Girls

## by 

## Rupert Rouge 

* * *

**British Columbia, along the Fraser River near Prince George, July 1979  
**

All that day they'd worked at building the sweat lodge. The two of them began early in the morning, after a breakfast of fish cooked over an open fire and a mug of bark tea. 

"But I thought we were supposed to fast before a sweat," Ben said. 

He looked a question at his companion, Eric, the Tsimshian hunter he'd known all his life. 

"That is so," Eric said. "But the lodge won't be ready until evening, and we'll be too busy for lunch. So we'll be in the right frame of mind for the sweat when it's time." 

Ben drained the last tea from his mug and looked at his bark plate to see if there were any remnants of the fish, caught just an hour and a half ago from the river on whose banks they were camping. Eric had picked wild herbs to lay on the fish fillets as they cooked and the result was delicious. "I'm glad we didn't have to skip breakfast. Being out in the woods like this always gives me an appetite." 

Eric glanced at him as he set aside his mug and bark-plate. "You're a growing boy. How old are you now?" 

"I had my eighteenth birthday on July first. I'm a _man_ , Eric," Ben protested, with a smile. 

Eric's expression relaxed into an answering smile. "Of course you are. Now let's get to work." 

Ben went off to search for the volcanic lava rocks they would need for the sweat lodge. By the time he returned, dragging a travois full of stones behind him, Eric had dug the fire pit and started the fire. Ben emptied the stones from the travois so that Eric could choose the best of them. 

"Twenty-eight rocks," Eric said. "One for each rib of the caribou, whose meat sustains us in the winter. And for the twenty-eight days of a woman's moon cycle. Have you had a woman yet, Fraser? 

Even here in a forest in British Columbia, far from the indifferent gaze of his school mates, far from the censorious gaze of his father and grandparents, Ben Fraser could still blush up to his eyes. 

"No," he managed to choke out. "I haven't." 

Eric smiled faintly. "Then you are not a man. Yet." 

Ben watched as Eric put the rocks into the fire pit to heat, then dug a second pit a little distance away. This pit, which would be the center of the lodge, would receive the hot rocks. While Eric dug, Ben cut vines to use as twine. Then he and Eric cut twenty-eight branches of red willow, bending them to form the dome shape of the lodge. Expertly, Eric wove the vines around the bent branches to hold them together. 

By mid-afternoon the lodge had begun to take on its final covering. Eric wove mats from the grasses by the river and after he hung them over the lodge frame, Ben followed with handfuls of river mud, plastering grasses and branches together into walls. 

Now it was late afternoon and they were waiting for the stones to finish heating. Ben looked around him, at the clearing in the middle of the forest, at the clean, swift-running river, and took a breath of sheer delight. How fortunate he was to be spending his summer like this, with his Tsimshian friends. Grandma Fraser had originally had quite different plans for him following his graduation from Samuel Hearne High School in Inuvik. His grandmother in fact had been beside herself when she'd learned that Grandpa would have to go into a nursing home in Vancouver for several months. "I have to be with him, Ben," she said, looking more distracted than he'd ever seen her. "And I'd so hoped to be guiding you through your reading this summer, before you go to college in September." 

"That's all right, Grandma," he assured her. "Eric has invited me to spend the summer with the Raven Clan, at their hunting and fishing camps. I'll be fine." 

She looked doubtful. Ben knew she regarded the Tsimshian as uncivilized ("The dear Lord knows what you might learn from their heathenish ways, Ben"), but in the end his arguments won her over. "Grandma, if I go with the Raven Clan, my keep will cost you nothing--I'll earn my own way by tracking and fishing. And you can rent out our house in Inuvik until Grandpa gets better." 

For once in his life, Ben got his own way, and this was his reward--this blissful summer, freed of the constraints of the so-called civilized world. Here in the forest there were no clocks, no interminable Sunday church services, no endless admonitions to Duty, Thrift, and Obedience--just the wild music of the wind in the trees and the song of the river as it rippled through the days. 

He came back to the present, as Eric waved his hand before Ben's eyes. "Where are you, Fraser? We're almost ready. I just need to weave one more mat for the doorway. Would you gather some branches to sit on while I do that? Red cedar is traditional." 

By evening, the lodge was finished. Eric mounded the displaced earth outside the entrance--the only opening into the sweat lodge--to use as an altar. 

"Let's drink and fill our buckets now, and then we'll wash off in the river before we begin." 

The light lingered late on a summer evening in this northern climate. Ben and Eric stripped off the bark garments they wore--something between a thong bathing suit and a wraparound apron--and plunged into the river to get clean. A few minutes were enough. 

"You're as brown as me," Eric said, as they emerged dripping from the invigorating freshness of the water, and walked back up the riverbank. 

Ben looked at himself. Two weeks of traveling in the summer warmth with his Tsimshian friends had darkened him from his winter-white to a shade that was the color of strong tea mixed with milk, but even so it looked nothing like Eric's gleaming, coppery skin. 

They shook the water off themselves as they approached the fire pit. "We've filled our water buckets," Eric said, checking each one as Ben carried the buckets over to the lodge entrance. "We have the sage and the sweetgrass. Now we'll do a chant before we go in." 

"How many rounds are we going to do tonight?" Ben asked, with a slight feeling of guilt. A sweat was an intense spiritual experience, but it was also time-consuming, and he was uncomfortably aware that it had been a long time since breakfast. 

"Four," Eric said. "We'll do all four rounds. Too bad the others aren't joining us until tomorrow. But they can hold their own sweat lodge tomorrow night." 

Eric picked up his drum, a hide stretched tightly over a round frame made of red cedar. The image of a raven, inked into the drumskin, signified Eric's membership in the Raven Clan. Ben picked up the rattle, a hollow ball carved of wood and filled with dry seeds, from which protruded a wooden handle. The two faced east and began to chant as Ben shook the rattle and Eric drummed. 

_The Earth is our Mother_  
We must take care of her   
The Earth is our Mother   
We must take care of her   
Hey, yonna, ho, yonna, hey yon-ya   
Hey, yonna, ho, yonna, hey yon-ya   


Her sacred ground we walk upon   
With every step we take   
Her sacred ground we walk upon   
With every step we take   
Hey, yonna, ho, yonna, hey yon-ya   
Hey, yonna, ho, yonna, hey yon-ya  


The Earth is our Mother   
She will take care of us...   


By the time they finished the third stanza, Ben was slipping into the familiar, welcome state he thought of as Other-Worldliness. Eric thrust the shovel into the fire pit, took seven of the rocks, and dropped to his knees to pass the shovel through the doorway and deposit the stones into the rock pit inside the lodge. "Hand me the grasses, please, Fraser," Eric said. "Thanks." 

Ben admired his companion's lithe form as he crawled into the lodge. Eric, he knew, was thirty, but the agility of his movements, the raven blackness of the hair that fell past his shoulders and down his back, made him seem as if he were Ben's own age. 

Following Eric's example, he dropped to his knees, kissed the earth, then crawled through the doorway. As always, when he entered a sweat lodge, he felt amazed that such a small dark room could seem as big as the universe and as holy as the most ancient site in the Old World: funny, that, considering that the lodge was only shoulder-height, and had been built by human hands. 

Eric let down the mat over the doorway, closing them inside. He threw the sage and sweetgrass on the hot rocks, following the herbs with water from the pail next to the door. Steam rose immediately. 

Ben felt his mind drifting as his body became hotter and hotter. First, the sweat appeared on the skin, as the outer layer warmed up. Then the intense heat penetrated all his organs, so that he felt roasted, so hot that his sense of balance began to go. He'd never been so hot. Never. He almost couldn't breathe. 

"Earth Mother, I pray that you remove my resentments," Eric's quiet voice began. "There are things I resent that I should work to change. Help me please, Mother." 

Because it was too dark to see Eric's face or for Eric to see his, Ben felt comfortable as he took his turn. "Earth Mother, help me overcome my fear of abandonment. Ever since my father left me alone in the woods that time when I was six, and my mother died afterwards, I've felt abandoned. And I've been afraid." 

It was true. His child's mind had perceived the test of character devised by his father-- being left alone in the woods at night--as rejection, and his mother's death a short time later as more rejection. The six-year-old Ben had reasoned that he must be very unlovable if his parents were so ready to leave him alone. Since that time he had grown an emotional shield between himself and the rest of the world. For the six-year-old that still lived inside him somewhere thought that if he didn't allow anyone to get close in the first place, there could be no possibility that they'd leave. 

The fragrant steam swirled around him in wisps and shreds, and he felt himself getting dizzy. "Water, please, Eric." 

Eric passed him a mug of water, then opened the door and crawled out to get more hot rocks. Ben stretched out full length on the earth floor, putting his nose near the door to get some air. Mother Earth felt soft and yielding beneath him, blessedly cool against his hot skin. After Eric returned and poured more water on the new rocks, he replaced the door covering and they began the second round. 

This time, Eric asked for good health for his family, friends, and clan, and Ben echoed the request, for his own family as well as Eric's. 

In the third round, Eric asked for skill in negotiating. "I would like to join the ranks of tribal elders in a few years. And then I will have to settle disputes and pass judgments, so I need to know how to negotiate to the satisfaction of all parties." 

Ben breathed in some of the steam. In the darkness he could hear the cedar boughs on the floor crackle as Eric shifted position. 

"Your turn to ask the Mother for something for yourself, Fraser." 

Ben took a deep breath. "Earth Mother, please send me...love." 

Again he drank deeply from the bucket when Eric opened the door of the lodge and crawled out to retrieve the final shovelful of seven rocks. 

In the fourth round, Eric asked for good hunting and fishing for the four clans of the Tsimshian tribe--the Raven, the Wolf, the Eagle, and the Killer Whale--during the summer. 

Ben asked for the environment to be safe and unpolluted. "The earth, the water, the air, Mother. Let them be clean for all those who live on them and in them." 

"So," Eric said, adding more water to the rocks. "Now we journey." 

And then silence reigned as each of them breathed in the vapors. 

Ben felt his mind drift and his consciousness take flight outside his body: although he knew his earthly frame was sitting in the lodge with bowed head, his spirit ranged over the world. Gradually, he became aware of snow-covered peaks surrounding a valley. The dazzling whiteness that covered the valley floor, the blue glint of ice, told him it was a scene in deep winter. A pale blue sky arched over the mountain peaks. It seemed to him that he was in the body of his father, Robert Fraser, looking at the world from a middle-aged man's eyes. 

A peaceful enough scene, and one familiar to him since earliest childhood. Why then, was he conscious of a nameless, faceless dread? Over what unimaginable horror did that innocent-looking blue sky preside? 

Dread filled him to the point that he almost forgot to breathe. His eyes widened in terror, his heart began to race. Something unknown was waiting to take him away. 

The cold white and blue of the scene enveloped him, chilling him to the very soul. Blood stained the snow that covered the valley, and Death was coming for him. Closer and closer it moved toward him and he was transfixed, unable to move, unable to scream: he could only wait helplessly as Death hovered over him and then swooped low, ready to enfold him in its wings. A horrible feeling of finality consumed him. Death was coming to carry him away and there was nothing, nothing at all he could do. 

Ben screamed. 

* * * * * * *

When he came to, he was lying outside the lodge in Eric's arms, not far from the fire pit. It was still light, although the long Northern day was beginning to fade: the sound of the wind sighing through the pines and cedars, spruces and firs, brought him back to consciousness like someone whispering in his ear. 

"Fraser, are you back?" 

The words penetrated his mind and he looked up into Eric's worried face. Unable to speak for the moment, he managed to nod. 

Eric looked grave. "Can you tell me what you saw?" 

"I thought I was in my father's body, and I saw Death. Death was coming for me. Eric, I'm so scared!" 

"Don't be scared, I'm here with you. It was only a vision, Fraser, not reality." 

Ben shuddered, and tightened his arms around his friend. How could he tell Eric of the pervasive dread that had filled him, of the terror engendered by the knowledge of his own helplessness? "Snow...I saw snow. And mountains. And Death was waiting there to take me, Eric." 

Eric lifted one hand to smooth Ben's hair away from his face. The touch of a human hand was so comforting that Ben, wanting more, acted before he thought. Some uncontrollable impulse seized him and before he could stop to think he'd wrapped one arm around Eric's neck and kissed him full on the lips. 

Eric's mouth was firm, and warm, and he returned Ben's kiss with a gentle, answering pressure. Then he pulled back. 

"Fraser...is this what you want?" 

Ben looked into Eric's eyes and answered honestly. "I-I'm not sure what I want." 

"This?" 

Eric bent his head to touch his lips to Ben's: a tress of his hair brushed softly against Ben's cheek, and this time it was Ben who responded to the pressure of Eric's mouth. 

"Yes, Eric." His voice sounded breathless to his own ears. 

"This?" 

And Eric's strong hands, calloused with daily wear and tear, hands that could build a sweat lodge, or guide a kayak, or skin a caribou, and yet remain sensitive enough to weave a mat of wild grass or soothe a crying child, caressed the smooth skin of Ben's back, from his shoulders down to his buttocks. 

"Yes. Oh, yes, Eric." 

"This?" 

The skin-to-skin contact was having an unlooked-for effect. Ben felt himself growing hard and realized, in an agony of embarrassment, that Eric who was holding him close, would be able to feel it too. 

And then Eric took Ben's hard shaft in his hand, rubbing one broad thumb against the foreskin, which retracted; as he continued to gently massage the head, pre-ejac fluid began to appear. Soon Ben's cock was moist and slippery as Eric's strokes began to increase in intensity. 

Ben moaned and began to push against that experienced touch. Eric fastened his mouth to Ben's, wrapping one hand around Ben's cock firmly enough that Ben had something to push into. In a few minutes, Ben's moans and thrustings reached a hot, shattering climax, and he cried out--"Aaaah!" 

Eric still held him against his chest, dropping soft kisses on Ben's hot face, on his hair, on his mouth. 

"Aaah, ah, Eric...." 

Gradually Ben became aware that Eric was humming a tuneless song: he could feel the vibrations of it from the broad chest against which he rested. Then Eric's humming mixed with the whispering of the wind through the trees and Ben knew no more. 

* * * * * * * * * 

The sound of voices woke him the next morning. As Ben opened his eyes he realized that he was in the tent he and Eric shared. He had no memory at all of going to sleep in the tent last night: had Eric dragged him into it? He turned his head to see whether Eric was awake yet, but his companion's space was empty. 

_Oh, God, how embarrassing._ As the memory of last night's events trickled back into his consciousness, he squirmed. Oh, how could he have given way to terror like that? He'd acted just like a baby, frightened by a bedtime fairy tale--after insisting to Eric, a few hours earlier, that he was a man! What must Eric think of him now? 

_But it *was* a terrifying vision,_ some part of his mind insisted. Anyone would have recoiled in horror from it. Looking at that innocent scene--at that snow-covered valley on a clear winter's day, knowing that horror lurked just beyond the edge--had been the most unnerving experience of his entire life. 

And afterwards...oh, God. Ben groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, as if by covering his face he could blot out the memory of what had happened in Eric's arms last night. No wonder Eric had risen early and left the tent before Ben woke up. He didn't want to be in the same vicinity as his former friend--Fraser, the Teenaged Pervert. 

Better to face him and get it over with. He'd apologize abjectly and then hope that Eric would never refer to the incident again. Ben rolled off the sleeping mat and crawled on his hands and knees to the tent's opening. Through the mosquito-proof netting he could see various members of the Raven Clan walking back and forth and talking to each other. The smoke of a fire drifted to his nostrils, and he realized that someone was cooking bannock. His stomach grumbled that it had not been fed for twenty-four hours: definitely, it was time to eat. 

His barkcloth garment was lying near the entrance. Eric must have put it there. Swiftly Ben tied it on and left the tent. 

Outside, Victoria and Albert, the newlyweds, were preparing breakfast. Ben crouched beside them as Victoria turned the bannock over in the heavy iron frying pan and Albert sprinkled sugar over a basket of mixed berries. 

"Good morning, Fraser," Victoria said. "Did you sleep well? Are you ready for breakfast?" 

"Very ready," Ben said, eying the bannock, which was turning a rich golden brown. Its savory aroma made him feel even more hollow. "Have you seen Eric?" 

"We passed him on our way here," Albert said. He scooped some berries into a small carved wooden bowl and handed it to Ben. "You'll have to eat with your fingers, I don't think we brought any spoons. Eric was heading north to the village of the Wolf Clan." 

So Eric hadn't simply left the tent, he'd left the camp site. "Did Eric give you a message for me?" 

"No," Victoria said. She lifted the frying pan out of the hot ashes of the cooking fire, set it on a flat stone, and cut a wedge of the hot scone. "Here's a piece of bannock for you, Fraser. I'm sorry there's no butter for it." 

Steam rose from the plate she handed him. He broke off a bite, tasted, chewed. "Thank you, it's delicious." The rich corn flavor and moist texture of the hot bannock were so satisfying it was all Ben could do not to weep tears of gratitude. 

Obviously, Eric had left because of his outrageous behavior the night before; therefore, his first priority must be to find his Tsimshian friend and apologize to him. He'd set out right after breakfast. 

* * * * * * 

By mid-afternoon he had reached a village, and long before he could hear voices he could smell the smoke of cooking fires. Ben's flagging spirits revived: he was tired and hungry. He'd been able to follow Eric's tracks quite easily, even though the man was walking barefoot, and the tracks had led him here. 

He had followed the course of the river: now, as he approached the village, he saw someone on the river bank, busy doing something with the birch trees that grew not far from the water. 

As he came closer, he saw that the someone was a girl. _A woman,_ he corrected himself. Young, and--his heart fluttered inside him--beautiful. She was tall for a Tsimshian, with long, shining hair that lay sleekly against her head and moved like a black waterfall when she moved. She appeared to be stripping bark from a stand of birch trees. 

The young woman looked at him with some surprise as he walked toward her. " _æ'umksiwa,_ " she said. "A European!" 

"Good afternoon," he said in _Sm'algyàx,_ which was the Tsimshian word for their own language. Literally, it meant "real talk." "My name is Fraser. What is yours?" 

"In the city, I call myself Amy Ashoona. But here I use my real name, Amoudla. What brings you here?" 

Noticing that she had sat down on the riverbank and was beginning to fashion a basket out of the bark that lay in a pile beside her, he sat down too. 

"I'm looking for Eric, hunter of the Raven Clan. Have you seen him by any chance? His trail led here." 

"Eric...Eric's away. He went hunting for caribou. He'll be back tomorrow night, with meat for the potlatch." 

"There's a potlatch tomorrow night?" This was exciting news: a potlatch was a major event among the Tsimshian. Sometimes as many as a thousand people attended. It involved gift-giving, storytelling, dancing, and a great deal of feasting. 

"Yes." Amoudla looked at him and smiled. "We of the Wolf Clan are giving it. I'm raising a totem pole tomorrow night in honor of my grandparents." 

"Really," Ben said, impressed. "Did you carve it yourself or did someone else?" 

"I did," Amoudla said. "In the city I'm affiliated with a design studio, and I spend most of the year working there. But I've been coming back here in the summers. My totem pole--" she laughed, throwing her head back and exposing a long, lovely line of throat to his gaze--"has taken me five summers to carve. I started while I was still in college." 

"I suppose you were at 'Ksan?" he asked. The famous Indian School of Art and Carving in 'Ksan had trained numerous Inuit sculptors, painters, and designers. 

Amoudla nodded. "Unfortunately, my grandparents died before I finished the carving. I wish they were still here...I miss them so much. My grandmother was Chieftainess of the Nishga Tribe, and she told me all the old stories and legends of our people." 

"Tell me about her," Ben suggested. Although he was hungry and would have liked to make his way to the village, Amoudla intrigued him. She was beautiful; moreover, she created beauty with her hands, and she seemed to be casting a spell over him. He simply did not want to leave her vicinity. 

All through high school he'd observed Inuit girls. He found many of them attractive, with their strong, well-made bodies and flashing dark eyes. He noticed how they cultivated qualities that would attract the boys they would one day marry: the sharpness of their teeth, so necessary to preparing hides for clothing; their attention to the smallest details of their environment, because such attention to detail could mean the difference between life and death; the pride they took in their physical strength--the strength that would give them the ability to walk miles in driving snow, help build an _iglu_ an hour, and carry the day's catch home from an ice-fishing expedition. Their self-confidence intimidated Ben, always the outsider, not only in upbringing but in appearance. His blue eyes and brown hair posed a contrast to his dark-haired classmates that was almost painful. 

Although he'd been captain of the school ice hockey team, which in theory made him a desirable catch for any girl, he never asked one of his classmates out for an evening. After all, what could he offer any of the Inuit girls? They would marry men of their own kind soon after graduation from high school, but early marriage was not in his future. For as long as he could remember, he'd wanted to be a Mountie, like his father, and as far as Ben Fraser was concerned, everything else in life was subordinate to that one goal. 

Watching Amoudla now, he admired the way she was making the basket. He'd always taken pleasure in watching an expert perform a task, whatever the field of expertise: she used her hands with economy and precision, wasting no motions. The artist in him admired the necklace of polished wolf claws she wore, and the wolf design etched into her barkcloth tunic. 

"I'd love to tell you about Grandmother, but how about making yourself useful while I talk? I've promised to make baskets to give away at the potlatch. You could gather the bark for me, while I start sewing the baskets together." 

"Very well." 

"You have to thank the tree, first," Amoudla said. "Then you say, 'Please let me have some bark to make my baskets. I'll only take what I need.' And be sure to cut the strip only from the east side of the tree, the side that faces the sun when it rises in the morning. And cut only one strip from each tree, so the tree will heal up and keep on living." 

"Right," Ben said, thinking that for all this young woman's breathtaking prettiness, she was certainly bossy. 

So as he stripped bark for her, Amoudla sewed the baskets with spruce root and told him about her grandmother. "She was the one who made all the decisions in the village. If she announced one day that the tribe had caught enough seal to meet its seal oil and dried meat needs for the winter, then that was that. There could be no more seal hunting until autumn. Grandmother knew the bogs where all the sweetest, juiciest berries grew and she'd stay in the boat, directing people while they filled basket after basket. If she thought someone in the tribe needed dried fish or seal meat or ptarmigan, she'd share some of our family's food with that person. She and the other women knew everything that was going on in the village, and how much we had to eat or trade." 

"She sounds like a strong, wise woman," Ben said. He knew that clan membership passed from mother to child among the Tsimshian. "My grandmother is very strong, too, and makes all the decisions in our house. She and my grandfather brought me up. My mother died when I was six and my father is a Mountie. He's away most of the time." 

"And does your grandmother tell you all the legends of your people, as mine told me?" Amoudla asked. "My grandmother told me how Raven stole the sun from the Spirit of the Sky World and gave light to the earth. And about Raven's magic canoe that could shrink to the same size as a pine needle or grow as big as the universe." 

Fraser thought of his grandmother, her strict adherence to such old-fashioned Scots Presbyterian virtues as thrift, devotion to duty, unfailing politeness, and humility. And her constant harping on the subject of sin, filtered through the perspective of her previous vocation as a missionary in China before the second world war. "Oh, yes, she told me all the legends of our people. I like yours better, though." 

Amoudla flashed a smile at him and tossed her long hair over one shoulder. The look she gave him seemed to say, "And what else do you like?" 

But Ben, tongue-tied in the presence of such a self-assured beauty, had nothing to say. 

* * * * *

The potlatch ritual attracted clans from all over the area. Ben couldn't remember ever seeing so many people in one place before. They laughed, sang old hunting songs, told jokes and stories, ate prodigiously, and drank. At supper time the drums began and their soft, insistent throbbing penetrated his consciousness so that he felt poised for some as- yet-unknown excitement. The drums were calling him, but he only half-understood their song: his body seemed to understand better than his mind did, because his feet tapped the earth in time to the drum rhythm, and his heartbeat quickened. While he and the others waited for the raising of Amoudla's totem pole, he scanned the crowd for a sight of Eric, without success. So many people were constantly shifting and moving among the shadows cast by the huge cooking fire in the center of the village that he could barely make out a face before it was gone again. 

Ben watched fascinated as Amoudla uncovered her totem pole after the men raised it, and the faces of her grandparents, carved out of the red cedar tree trunk, stared out at the people assembled in front of the long house. There were speeches, but he could never remember afterward what was said: he was too busy looking at Amoudla. 

He thought she eyed him, too, and his theory was proven correct when she came over to him, carrying two cups of the sparkling white wine, made from the fermented juice of crowberries, that everyone was drinking. "'M'mm, it's good," he said, draining the cup. "Crowberries--your people call them Nishca-Minnick, the gray gooseberry, because crowberries are the favorite food of the gray goose." 

Amoudla laughed, her white teeth flashing in her dark face. "Forget the lecture, we're not in school tonight. Or, at least," she said, giving him a flirtatious look, "not _that_ kind of school. Are you a fast learner, Fraser?" 

"Yes," he said. He grinned happily at her, aware that he felt extraordinarily good. Light- hearted, in fact. "Let's dance," he said. He searched her face, hoping she would accept. To his delight, she nodded acquiescence. 

"Come," she said, taking his hand. He squeezed her hand a little--such a small, strong, capable, yet soft hand. 

The dancing at the potlatch was not at all like the dancing he'd seen in old movies. It more nearly resembled the kind of dancing everyone did nowadays--not cheek to cheek, but separated by at least a foot of air, a matter of moving one's shoulders in the opposite direction from one's hips, not touching each other at all. He regretted that. He wondered what Amoudla would feel like in his arms. 

At last, after a particularly energetic dance, they went in search of more wine. After they filled their cups, Ben looked around for somewhere to sit, but Amoudla shook her head. "Come with me, Fraser," she said, pulling him along after her. The torchlight gave enough light for them to make their way past the row of wooden houses until they reached the little hut where Amoudla lived. 

" _T'seen,_ " she said, pushing the door open with one shoulder. "Come in." 

Inside, after Amoudla lit a paraffin lantern, they sat side by side on the wooden bench that flanked a table--a plain but elegant affair also fashioned from red cedar. Ben noticed the grain of the wood and thought of the hours Amoudla must have spent sanding it smooth. A fragrant bundle of branches of amabilis fir, that the Tsimshian called _Cabsapt,_ hung from the ceiling to freshen the air. 

"This wine is...berry delicious," Ben said. He giggled. 

"Ha ha, Fraser, I think you're a little bit tiddley. Let's see if you are." 

Amoudla brought her face close to his: in the dim light cast by the lantern he could see the shine of her dark eyes, the sheen of her bronze skin, the enticing red of her lips. "Only a little bit," she said. "You're not completely snockered, good. Here." 

She slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around her, responding to the pressure of her soft lips with every fibre of his being. She felt wonderful against him--slim and firm, but with certain lush and pillowy places. Tentatively, he rested his hand on the curve of her left breast, and she did not draw away. 

"Oh, you're beautiful," he breathed into her ear, and she kissed him again. 

When the kiss ended, they looked at each other. 

"You're a sweet boy, Fraser," Amoudla said. "Pretty, too." 

"Not as pretty as you. And anyway, I'm a man, not a boy." 

A gust of soft laughter floated toward him. "Are you really a man, Fraser? Man enough for me?" 

"Yes," he said, enchantment sweeping through him, "I am. I _am_ , Amoudla." 

Amoudla stood up, pulled her barkcloth tunic over her head, and revealed herself. In the lamplight her bronze skin seemed to glow, and he noticed with fascination that she still wore the wolf-claw necklace nestled between her perfect breasts. He'd never before seen a woman without her clothes and the sight seemed to him so glorious that he was almost moved to tears. 

He stood up then, slipping off his own barkcloth garment, and they moved together into an embrace that ended only when they were lying down on Amoudla's bed. 

And while they kissed and caressed and explored, the drums still throbbed softly in the square, and he was ready, so ready to finally prove his manhood by burying himself inside her, until... 

"Is there anything I can do to help you resurrect your own personal totem pole? It seems to have collapsed," Amoudla said. 

She sounded sympathetic, but he rolled away from her, onto his back and looked at the ceiling. "It's no use, Amoudla. I'd like to make love to you, but my grandmother told me it would be wrong." 

"What? Have you been in touch with her, then? How?" 

"No, no. I mean, my grandmother said it was wrong to--to have sexual relations with a woman unless you're married to her. And I can't marry you, Amoudla. I've just won a four-year scholarship to college, and after that I'm going to the RCMP Academy in Regina. I'm going to be a Mountie like my father. It's always been the dream of my life." 

Amoudla rolled over on her side to look at him. "Fraser--leaving aside the fact that if a person married everyone she slept with, she'd never have time to do any work, she'd be so busy applying for marriage licenses--what makes you think I'd marry you if you asked me?" 

Ben felt himself blushing, even though he knew the light wasn't strong enough for her to see it. "I--I don't know. I just assumed--" 

"You assumed wrong. I won a scholarship too, my friend, and it took a lot of hard, hard work. I worked like a sled dog all through college to learn everything they could teach me about carving and design. Now I'm associated with a studio in Victoria, and I plan to have a studio of my own one day. I certainly have no intention of giving up all my plans for a tiny house somewhere, with wailing kids and a husband who barely notices me except when he's horny." 

"I see," Ben murmured. He felt chastened. Why should he have thought this proud beauty would marry him, even if he'd wanted to propose to her--which he didn't? Amoudla was as determined to be an artist as he was to become a Mountie. He berated himself for thinking that his work was more important than hers: never again would he assume that women's ambitions would always be subordinate to those of men. 

"That's all right." She stroked his hair. "You're very young, and I can see your grandmother has a lot of influence over you. Did you have a girlfriend in high school?" 

"No," he said, painfully honest as always. "I had to work hard too, for my scholarship. It's the only way I can go to college, so I couldn't afford to fail. I had to make sure that I earned straight A's, and got a place on the school hockey team, and did community service so the university committee would think I was well-rounded. I didn't have time to go out with girls." 

"That's a shame. Well--" she yawned. "--you'll meet the right girl eventually. I'm sorry, I've got to get some sleep, it's been a long day. You're welcome to stay the night here." 

"Thanks, but I think I'd better go," Ben said. He slid out of the bed, found his garment, and tied it on. "Good night, Amoudla. Sleep well." 

But she was already asleep, and did not wake up when he opened the door and very quietly let himself out. 

* * * * * * * 

"Eric?" The old woman looked up from the frying pan she was holding over the fire. "Yes, I've seen him. He's in the visitor's hut on the other side of the long house. You can't miss it. It's got a pair of caribou antlers outside the front door." 

"Thank you, mother," Ben said, giving the old woman the courtesy title. 

It was just after sunrise, but despite the wine he'd drunk the night before he felt wide awake--if for no other reason than that the floor of the long house had been very uncomfortable, and the noises emitted by his bunkmates, most of whom had consumed far more liquor than he had, had conspired to shorten his sleep. 

So he yawned as he set off in search of the hut with the antlers, and then took several breaths of the fresh, cool air. 

The door of the hut was slightly ajar: he knocked once, lightly. 

" _T'seen,_ " Eric's voice said. 

Ben pushed the door open and entered the room. Eric glanced up, briefly, then resumed his packing. Around him were all the implements and supplies necessary for a hunting expedition. 

"I was wondering when you'd show up, Fraser." 

"I came to apologize, Eric. I'm sorry about what happened the other night at the fishing camp." 

Eric raised his head, looked Ben straight in the eye. "Don't be." 

"But I was so out of line, I--" 

"You were hungry. I gave you what you needed." 

Ben stared. Something in his face evidently made an impression, because Eric, abandoning his habitual reserve, proceeded to explain. 

"After your mother died when you were six years old, you were never held and kissed as much as you should have been." Eric's voice was gentle, but he hesitated, appearing to choose his words carefully. "Your grandparents and your father are good people, but their ways are not ours. We know that children must be held close and touched often. Otherwise, they die." 

Ben tore his gaze away from Eric, looked at the wall. "But I shouldn't have done what I did. I shouldn't have put you in such an awkward situation." 

"Don't think of it that way. Think of it as one human being reaching out to another for comfort. Nothing to be ashamed of--we all need comfort from time to time." 

This time it was Ben who looked his friend in the eye. "Thank you." 

"Now," Eric said, turning to pick up his rifle, "why don't we go hunt some caribou?" 

"Sounds good to me," Ben said. He bent to lift one of the bundles from the floor of the hut. 

"Did you see Amoudla?" 

Ben straightened up immediately, searching his friend's face. "You sent her, then. I wondered." 

"Yes. Well?" Eric smiled. "Did she make a man of you?" 

"She tried. I couldn't, Eric. At the crucial moment, I thought of my grandmother, and what she said about saving myself for marriage, and... I just couldn't." 

"Oh. Well... let's go, then." 

"Eric--" 

"Yes?" 

"I'm hungry still." 

The hunter opened his arms and Ben walked straight into them. As he felt Eric's arms go around him, Ben heard his voice in his ear. "One day you'll meet someone that you want to spend the rest of your life with, and you won't need this from me. But for now... as long as you need me, I'll be here." 

  
**The End**

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"The Earth is Our Mother" Native American chant from _A Circle is Cast_ by Libana, Spinning Records, 1986. Copyright July 1997 by Rupert Rouge on all original story content. Not meant to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications, or any other copyright holders for _due South_. Please do not reproduce for anything other than personal reading use without written consent of the author. Comments welcome at. 

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